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Posts tagged ‘1837’

He came too late!–Neglect had tried
Her constancy too long;
Her love had yielded to her pride,
And the deep sense of wrong.
She scorned the offering of a heart
Which lingered on its way,
Till it could no delight impart,
Nor spread one cheering ray.
He came too late!–At once he felt
That all his power was o’er!
Indifference in her calm smile dwelt,
She thought of him no more.
Anger and grief had passed away,
Her heart and thoughts were free;
She met him and her words were gay,
No spell had memory.

He came too late!–the subtle chords
Of love were all unbound,
Not by offence of spoken words,
But by the slights that wound.
She knew that life held nothing now
That could the past repay,
Yet she disdained his tardy vow,
And coldly turned away.

He came too late!–Her countless dreams
Of hope had long since flown;
No charms dwelt in his chosen themes,
Nor in his whispered tone.
And when, with word and smile, he tried
Affection still to prove,
She nerved her heart with woman’s pride,
And spurned his fickle love.

At night while millions were asleep,
Near Hell I took my station;
And from that dungeon dark and deep
O’er heard this conversation.

Ghost —
Hail Prince of darkness, ever hail;
Adored by each infernal,
I’ve come among your gang to wail,
And taste of death eternal;
To weep and wail in endless pain,
Among your frightful legions,
To gnaw my tongue and clank my chains,
In these infernal regions.

Demon —
Where are you from;
What makes you look so frantic;
Are you from Carolina’s strand,
Just west of the Atlantic?
Are you that man of blood and birth,
Devoid of human feeling,
The man I saw when last on earth,
In human cattle dealing,
Who tore the infant from the breast;
That you might sell its mother
Whose craving mind could never rest,
‘Till you had sold a brother;
Who gave the sacrament to those
Whose chains and handcuffs rattl’d,
Whose backs soon after felt thy blows
More heavy, than thy cattle?

Ghost —
I’m from the South,
And I was there a teacher;
Saw men in chains; with laughing eyes,
I was the slaveman’s preacher.
In tassl’d pulpits gay and fine,
I strove to please the tyrants —
To prove that slavery was divine,
And what the Scriptures warrant.
And when I saw the horrid sight
Of slaves by torture dying,
And told their masters all was right,
I knew that I was lying.
I knew the time would soon roll ’round
When hell would be their portion —
When they in turn in fetters bound
Would plow the fiery ocean.
I knew all this, and who can doubt,
I felt a sad misgiving;
But still you know if I spoke out
That I should lose my living.
They made me fat; they paid me well,
To cry down abolition;
I slept, I died, I woke in Hell —
How alter’d my condition.
I now am in a sea of fire,
Where fury ever rages.
I am a slave and can’t get free,
And must be so for ages.
Yes when the sun and moon shall fade,
And fire the rocks dissever,
I must sink down beneath the shade
And feel God’s wrath for ever

The fiend heard this, and with a yell,
That made his chains to rattle,
Resounding through the vaults of Hell
Like to the raging battle
“Rejoice my friends in chains,” he cries,
“A moment leave your wailing,
And toss vour fettered arms on high,
Our Kingdom is prevailing.”
Peal joined to peal and yell to yell,
Throughout those frightful regions,
In notes that none can raise or swell,
But the infernal legions.
Wave broke on wave with horrid glare
Along the fiery ocean,
And ghosts and demons mingled there,
In tumult and commotion.
”How long,” they cry, “how long shall we
From hope of pardon serv’d.
Sink down and plow the fiery sea?”
The answer was ”forever”.

The Ghost stood trembling all the while,
He saw the scene transpiring,
With soul aghast and visage wild,
All hope was now retiring.
The demon cries on vengeances bent,
“I say in haste retire
And you shall have a nigger sent
To tend and punch the fire.”

When the rose is brightest,
Its bloom will soonest die;
When burns the meteor brightest,
‘Twill vanish from the sky.
If Death but wait until delight
O’errun the heart, like wine,
And break the cup when brimming quite,
I die — for thou hast pour’d to-night
The last drop into mine.

When I was a boy
In my father’s mud edifice,
Tender and bare
As a pig in a sty:
Out of the door as I
Look’d with a steady phiz,
Who but Thade Murphy
The piper went by.
Says Thady, “But few play
This music – can you play?”
Says I, “I can’t tell,
For I never did try.”
So he told me that he had a charm
To make the pipes purtily speak;
Then squeezed a bag under his arm,
When sweetly they set up a squeak!Fa-ra-la-la-ra-la-loo!Och hone!How he handled the drone!
And then the sweet music he blewWould have melted the heart of a stone!

“Your pipe,” says I, “Thady,
So neatly comes o’er me,
Naked I’ll wander
Wherever it blows:
And if my poor parents
Should try to recover me,
Sure, it won’t be
By describing my clothes.
The music I hear now
Takes hold of my ear now,
And leads me all over
The world by the nose.”
So I follow’d his bagpipe so sweet,
And I sung as I leap’d like a frog,
“Adieu to my family seat,
So pleasantly placed in a bog.”Fa-ra-la-la-ra-la-loo!
Och hone!
How we handled the drone!And then the sweet music we blewWould have melted the heart of a stone!

Full five years I follow’d him,
Nothing could sunder us;
Till he one morning
Had taken a sup,
And slipt from a bridge
In a river just under us
Souse to the bottom
Just like a blind pup.
He roar’d and he bawl’d out;
And I also call’d out,
“Now Thady, my friend,
Don’t you mean to come up?”
He was dead as a nail in a door –
Poor Thady was laid on the shelf.
So I took up his pipes on the shore,
And now I’ve set up for myself.
Fa-ra-la-la-ra-la-loo!
Och hone!
Don’t I handle the drone!
And play such sweet music? I, too,
Can’t I soften the heart of a stone!

Woodman, spare that tree!
Touch not a single bough!
In youth it sheltered me,
And I’ll protect it now.
‘Twas my forefather’s hand
That placed it near his cot;
There, woodman, let it stand,
Thy axe shall harm it not.

That old familiar tree,
Whose glory and renown
Are spread o’er land and sea—
And wouldst thou hew it down?
Woodman, forebear thy stroke!
Cut not its earth-bound ties;
Oh, spare that aged oak,
Now towering to the skies!

When but an idle boy,
I sought its grateful shade;
In all their gushing joy
Here, too, my sisters played.
My mother kissed me here;
My father pressed my hand—
Forgive this foolish tear,
But let that old oak stand.

My heart-strings round thee cling,
Close as thy bark, old friend!
Here shall the wild-bird sing,
And still thy branches bend.
Old tree! the storm still brave!
And, woodman, leave the spot;
While I’ve a hand to save,
thy axe shall harm it not.

I care not for Spring; on his fickle wing
Let the blossoms and buds be borne:
He woos them amain with his treacherous rain,
And he scatters them ere the morn.
An inconstant elf, he knows not himself
Nor his own changing mind an hour,
He’ll smile in your face, and, with wry grimace,
He’ll wither your youngest flower.

Let the Summer sun to his bright home run,
He shall never be sought by me;
When he’s dimmed by a cloud I can laugh aloud,
And care not how sulky he be!
For his darling child is the madness wild
That sports in fierce fever’s train;
And when love is too strong, it don’t last long,
As many have found to their pain.

A mild harvest night, by the tranquil light
Of the modest and gentle moon,
Has a far sweeter sheen, for me, I ween,
Than the broad and unblushing noon.
But every leaf awakens my grief,
As it lieth beneath the tree;
So let Autumn air be never so fair,
It by no means agrees with me.

But my song I troll out, for Christmas stout,
The hearty, the true, and the bold;
A bumper I drain, and with might and main
Give three cheers for this Christmas old!
We’ll usher him in with a merry din
That shall gladden his joyous heart,
And we’ll keep him up, while there’s bite or sup,
And in fellowship good, we’ll part.

In his fine honest pride, he scorns to hide
One jot of his hard-weather scars;
They’re no disgrace, for there’s much the same trace
On the cheeks of our bravest tars.
Then again I sing ’till the roof doth ring,
And it echoes from wall to wall—
To the stout old wight, fair welcome to-night,
As the King of the Seasons all!

I cannot hear thy voice with other’s ears,
Who make of thy lost liberty a gain;
And in thy tale of blighted hopes and fears
Feel not that every note is born with pain.
Alas! That with thy music’s gentle swell
Past days of joy should through thy memory throng,
And each to thee their words of sorrow tell
While ravished sense forgets thee in thy song.
The heart that on thy past and future feeds,
And pours in human words its thoughts divine,
Though at each birth the spirit inly bleeds,
Its song may charm the listening ear like thine,
And men with gilded cage and praise will try
To make the bard like thee forget his native sky.